Two Broken Halves
by Peppery Mints
Summary: When two things break, you could fix them separately or fix them together and make something beautiful and broken and strange. Two broken things complete each other - a sensible young ragamuffin who plays violin on a street corner, and a mad inventor who prowls the empty hallways in his defunct factory. Wonka/OC
1. Regrettable Dreams

_- Introduction -_

_(Regrettable Dreams)_

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Charlie asked him once if he ever had any regrets.

The two of them had been in the Inventing Room, with Willy up to his elbows in a special mixture that he had to get just right—Charlie was leaning over the table, his chin propped in the shelf of his palm, a careless swipe of chocolate across his cheek. Charlie had grown from a small boy full of curiosity and love for the world around him into a lanky young teen who admired his mentor more than life itself. It frightened both of them, just a little, how much Charlie cared for Willy, who was really the only father figure Charlie had ever known.

Willy had put down the stirrer and turned off the heat underneath the pot full of liquid. He turned to his small protégé, who was looking at him with a mixture of uncertainty and delight.

"Regrets, my dear boy," he began, "are simply dreams that have never been spoken aloud and left alone."

Charlie's blue eyes wandered downwards and then he said, "I think I have a few of those."

Willy ruffled Charlie's hair and snatched his purple overcoat. "I think we need a visit to the Chocolate Room."

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In the chocolate room, stretched out on the peppermint grass, the conversation continued.

"If regret is a dream that hasn't been said and then left alone," Charlie asked, chewing on a candy mushroom thoughtfully, "why do people have so many of them?"

"Because people love to dream," Willy answered, his slender fingers unwrapping a plain piece of butterscotch candy. "This is where I go to dream, Charlie, and it's where all of my regrets disappear."

There was a long silence, as worn and comfortable as an old warm jacket. The muted frothing of the chocolate waterfall soothed both of them, along with the peppery, musical chirps of the spearmint crickets in the grass. Charlie rolled onto one side and evaluated the profile of Mr. Wonka with a practiced eye; how often had he studied the serious profile of his whimsical tutor? How well did he know the moods and inspirations which struck the candymaker like the rise and flow of the tides?

"Who was she?"

Mr. Wonka closed his eyes.

"A musician."

"Did she like chocolate?"

He laughed then—a soft sort of chuckle. "Like chocolate? Of _course _she liked chocolate."

Charlie turned onto his back again and began memorizing the ceiling. He had a few precious gems of facts—ideas, really—about Mr. Wonka. Before the Golden Tickets. Before the Buckets. Before Mr. Wonka had a family. Here, he added two new pearls to his tiny treasure chest.

She was a musician.

And she liked chocolate.

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Amy, just like May but all mixed up.

She was very much all mixed up, and but not in the way he was. You could see it in the primness of her lips, the tight, smooth line of her jaw—she was a Sensible Young Lady, all capitalized, and of course they wanted nothing to do with each other because Amy was Amy and Willy was Willy. They didn't mix. Like peppermint and orange juice. They knew of each other but they didn't _know _each other. Everyone knew about Wonka's Candies, and most of the people in the City knew about the ragged little girl who sat on a street corner playing the violin.

Sensible young ladies didn't hang about in grungy taverns trawling for tips in a slinky black dress.

And rich, creative young men didn't spend their days locked away inside a defunct factory.

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**Bit of fluff and nonsense. I may continue this, if there's anyone interested.**


	2. A Very Odd Duck

_Chapter One_

_(A Very Odd Duck)_

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It was marvelous really, how the pristine blanket of snow could cover up everything ugly and dirty. She lay sprawled uncaringly in a snowbank, letting the snowflakes melt into hot tiny pricks on her skin. Overhead, the sky was rapidly shifting from a bright glaring gray to darker, more turbulent storm clouds. As the snow began to fall with increasing thickness (and now they no longer burned, they just settled on her eyelashes, heavy and crisp) she realized that if she didn't do anything, she would be completely buried in the stuff. And wouldn't that be poetic, in a fashion—to be buried under the purest, cleanest mantle Mother Nature had to offer.

But freezing to death honestly didn't appeal to her; death at all didn't appeal to her in general. Not that _life_ was any grand odyssey, God no, but it was better than dying. She stood up and brushed the snow off her skirt and threadbare vest, rubbing her chapped hands together to warm them. Shelter for the night was a must, and this thought recurring urgency; but in order for her to get a place to sleep, she needed money, or a suitable pitiful excuse to beg a cot at the church. Anyway, the church was a miserable place to sleep. All those blessings and prayers made her nervous.

The young musician tucked her awkward, bulky black case under her arm and took off down the street. She had played the poet; now it was time to play the realist. Swinging around the corner she darted into a small alleyway which was partly shielded from the driving snow and warmed her hands around the glowing embers of a trash fire. The homeless people surrounding the bin barely looked up, so intent on preserving their own warmth that they didn't even notice the young woman.

She dipped her hands into the warm ashes and ran off before the bums could take notice of her. Smearing the ash liberally on her cheeks and beneath her eyes, she wiped her hands conspicuously on her clothes and went to the street corner, setting her instrument case down in the accumulating snow. Businessmen rushed past, clad in dark coats and top hats, their ascots or scarves the only splotch of color on their black clothes. She hunched herself a small as she could (which was simple, really, she had always been scrawny) and tugged at the coat of a passing businessman.

"Please, sah, coppah for th' poor?" she pleaded, trying her best to appear starved and desperate.

"Be off," the man grunted, and shook himself free.

She glowered at his back. "Suit yourself, you miserly old curmudgeon." Her voice had been stripped of the rustic accent, but in a moment it was back as she tugged on the sleeve of another passing gentleman, repeating her pathetic mewling. This one didn't even bother with a word; he merely huffed an irritated breath and walked a little quicker.

Three more rejections later and she gave up, picking up her instrument and heading back into the alleyway. The streets of the city were a labyrinth even to the locals, but the poor and homeless knew the best routes. It took most people a lifetime to memorize the special corners and crannies which stuffed the old crooked city; she knew them by rote, and had learned them as quickly as they came up. It was a talent, really, it helped with her music.

Emerging out onto one of the main streets, she shook snow from her skirts and dashed up the steps to a warm, lighted bakery. She wouldn't dare use the front door, that was for paying customers, but on a cold night like this one she could be certain of a warm loaf of bread if she came in the back.

The spicy scent of cinnamon hit her, along with a blast of warm air from the kitchens. Even before her eyes had adjusted to the bright light she heard a familiar voice cry out, "Oh, bless my bones, if it isn't Amy Sweet!"

Amy took off her cap and smiled politely; the woman standing in front of her was short and fat, with curly auburn hair and a gap between her teeth, but she had done more for Amy than any other person in the world. Even though it was good to see her old friend again, Amy kept her expression polite and friendly. Ladies didn't grin like baboons, or laugh like donkeys. It was _unbecoming_.

"It's lovely to see you again, Mrs. Partridge," Amy said quietly. "My, it's certainly cold out tonight."

"I knew it," Mrs. Partridge sighed, "you aren't here for a visit, just for a place to sleep. The answer is no. My daughter an' her son are here, an' both of them have taken ill these past few days. I hate to turn you away on a night like this, but I can offer you some hot soup and a bite of bread if you're hungry."

A bite of bread and soup was better than Amy had been expecting, and she took off her wet coat and hung it by the fire without a second bidding. It was rather nice, to sit someplace warm and dry for once, and she sat primly in her seat while Mrs. Partridge spooned some leek soup into a bowl. There had been a time when she would be eating a peppered roast with a silver fork, and now a bowl of watery leek soup and a crust of brown bread seemed like a banquet.

As Mrs. Partridge worked in the kitchen, she chummered idly to herself, and Amy listened to it fondly while scraping her spoon around the bowl. Mrs. Partridge was a kind woman, but stern and unrelenting when it came to the upbringing of children. And when Amy had come here so many years ago, she had been very much a child.

"I have something for you," Mrs. Partridge said, breaking out of the endless murmurings beneath her breath. "It was on sale, half price at the market today, and whenever I see it cheap I have to buy it. Always reminds me of you, duckie."

Amy's blue eyes grew round at the sight of the foil-wrapped candy in front of her. The pink foil was so splendid it seemed almost a shame to unwrap and smooth it, but Amy did it anyway. Underneath the wrapper was a perfect square of decadent chocolate, with a tiny top hat insignia stamped into the top.

"Wonka chocolate," Amy said aloud. "How on earth did you get your hands on Wonka chocolate?"

Mrs. Partridge winked broadly. "It was in a big barrel, way down at the bottom! I still can't believe he isn't making any more, such a shame, it is. I did always like me a bit of chocolate with my tea, 'specially Wonka chocolate."

"I almost don't want to eat it," the musician bit her lip. "It's so hard to come by these days. And I don't care what the papers say, I _can_ taste the difference between Ficklegruber's chocolates and Wonka's chocolates."

"Right you are, duckie," Mrs. Partridge sighed. "Go on an' eat it, you'll feel better."

Reluctantly, Amy picked up the chocolate. For an instant she considered biting it in two, to make it last longer, but what if there was a surprise in the middle? A swirl of caramel, perhaps, or maybe a chunk of nougat? She couldn't risk it.

There _was_ caramel in the middle, and it was delicious. Far too quickly it was gone, melted away, but the long-remembered taste of Wonka chocolate reverberated around in her mouth. That was the secret of Wonka chocolate; it always lingered, making you wish for another piece but also content with the one you just had. Amy wasn't the only person in the world to bitterly mourn the loss of Willy Wonka.

And that gave her an idea.

"Do you think anyone's in that old factory?" Amy wondered aloud, smoothing the pink foil and folding it neatly in half.

"Probably not—it's been deserted, hasn't it?" Mrs. Partridge responded, taking a batch of current loaves out of the oven.

Amy slapped her wet cap onto her head and picked up her violin case. "Thank you ever so much for the soup, Mrs. Partridge, and thank you _so_ much for the chocolates. I hate to dash off like this, but I only just remembered a previous appointment." She bent down and pressed a swift kiss against the old woman's cheek and ran out the door, trailing her coat behind.

Mrs. Partridge stood in the kitchen, confused but pleased with the show of affection. "Well! She's an odd young duck and no mistake! I'll never understand how a lady with such nice manners ended up in the city sewers!"

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Amy curled her fingers around the cold cast-iron gates. Intricate swoops of iron spelled out the name Wonka in a big, messy scrawl. The snow was coming down very quickly now, and the whole city was quiet, muffled under the soundproofing of snow. Her cracked boots crunched through the ice as she sloughed her way towards the gates, and even though it was still only five o'clock in the afternoon, it was very dark outside. A soft yellow radius of light was thrown by the lit lamps on either side of the gate, and as she looked at them it brought a whole new barrage of questions.

Who changed the oil in the lamps? Who plowed the lots and sanded the sidewalks, even though the gates were locked and barred? There were no lights on in the factory, but it didn't appear to be in any great disrepair, either. It was all curious and terribly exciting, but remembering her Young Ladies' Handbook, she stopped and thought before performing a deed. Would the factory even be warm? Surely it would be out of the wind and the cold, and there _must_ be some old boxes or something to curl up with. Why hadn't she thought of this before? Even if the rumors were true and the place was haunted, it couldn't be all that spooky. There wasn't anything mysterious about an old empty factory.

She then decided that if she didn't get out of the snow she would freeze in place, so she passed her violin case through the cast-iron bars. Using her rather extraordinary slimness, she wedged herself through after it—and although while she was skinny, it was still a tight fit.

Amy was nearly positive that there was a window on the ground floor that she could break or open somehow and get inside, and then she could find some quiet corner to spend the night. As she drew closer, she noticed something odd.

_Very_ odd.

There was a line of footprints leading around the side of the building up the front steps. And amazingly, the thick chain which had been wrapped around the front steps was piled haphazardly next to the door, rather than wrapped around the handles.

Her heart was beating very loudly now, and despite her uncertainty Amy could detect a trace of wild excitement. Was someone in the factory?

Her gloved hand closed around the cold brass doorknob.

Strangely, incredibly, bizarrely, the handle _turned_.

The factory lay wide open in front of her.

Amy stepped inside and nearly stopped breathing, because it was very quiet and dark inside. There weren't any lights, as she had expected, but she hadn't anticipated how _dark_ it would be. And the whole place was warm, and seemed to breathe almost, like she had stepped into a living, breathing animal.

She told herself that was absolute nonsense. It was just the wind, and anyway, she couldn't hang about with the door hanging open. Once it was closed she was plunged into total darkness, but she soon found the small electric flashlight in her pocket and shone its weak beam down the hallway. Feeling remarkably like a character in a bad mystery novel, Amy padded down the carpeted hallway. It was actually quite nice to be so warm, and as soon as she found a quiet little corner she could curl up and sleep. She was so _very_ tired...

There was a light at the end of the hallway.

Amy shut off the penlight and hurried down to the end of the hallway.

Pinned to the door was a small note, handwritten in a rather unkempt, helter-skelter script:

_To My New Visitor:_

_You are TRESPASSING in my factory!_

Her mouth was suddenly very dry.

"It's old," she said aloud, and jumped at the sound of her own voice. She jerked the note down with shaking hands. "It's old and he put it up here long ago for a laugh. How very funny, Mr. Wonka."

"It's _not_ a joke."

Amy shrieked aloud.

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**There was a bit of interest for this story, so I'm going to continue it and see where it takes me. Us, rather. ;)**

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_[Five reviews received]_

_Special thanks to: _**Turrisludicous**, **Yuki Suou, Azalea Nightshade Discordia **and two **Guests**.  
_Kind of surprised this got any reviews at all! You guys were definitely the deciding factor in this story continuing at all. :)_


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